


Violence must be a recessive allele

by amendax



Series: Genetics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amendax/pseuds/amendax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He got into fights with the posh and snotty brats and blood and pain made his blood sing and dance in his pulsating arteries. His heart beat vigorously for the first time in his life and he was alive, shockingly alive, incandescently alive. The actions made his body tremble with energy. He mourned at the years lost, the years that he was kept in line, like there was a p53, checking his every thought, every decision, every movement, proofreading everything he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violence must be a recessive allele

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed.

Sebastian Augustus Moran was born in 1985, under the sign of Aries, a very quiet child, who only gave his loud first cry and quickly became silent again. Held in the slim arm of the tired Lady Moran, he squirmed in the tight but loveless embrace. Born almost literally with a silver spoon in his mouth, this blue-eyed baby was destined to have a well-off if not thriving future, at least according to his parents’ well-crafted plan, a myriad of carefully selected playmates from the same if not more powerful families, a guaranteed place into Eton, an inherited seat in parliament in the name of the prestigious Moran family.

If only life was like a good old-fashioned fairytale.

From his early memory, Sebastian knew nothing was what it seemed. His cultured and graceful mother, who dressed smartly in every tea party, doting on her cherub little boy with a much excessive amount of motherly love in front of her guests, as if this was a compensation of her aloof and reserved nature once they were alone at home—the majestic ancestral mansion that Lord Moran inherited; his stoic, devious father, who shared passionate kisses with his mother at every evening party, who ruffled his hair affectionately whenever they went for horse-riding with other Lords and heirs, who had a flawless reputation, political-wise and sexual-wise, as if this was how he fulfilled his duty as a responsible husband and father.

Indeed, Lord Moran and Lady Moran were perfect example of parents, caring yet strict, indulging yet never spoiling their only child. A fairy-tale worth childhood in front of the observing and judging eyes of every one. It must be an art, to live in two worlds, to be perfectly sane yet with different persona, later, the adult, more mature Sebastian would muse. But at that time, little Sebastian could only cry alone in his too-comfortable bed in his bedroom.

Little Sebastian always liked biology, actually what intrigued him was genetics, but no seven-year-old child would have heard of the word, let alone understood it. He liked to trace the cartoonish nose in the colourful baby book or the realistic hand in the battered Grey’s anatomy that he found in the attic, just to remind himself that despite he felt the raging hotness pounding in his head that made he saw red whenever he was mocked or insulted, he had got his mama’s nose and to convince himself that one day, one day his chubby hands would grow and elongate, and become as slender as his father’s, one day, he would drop his customary ‘um…’ and ‘ah….’ and speak calmly with cultivated words and sophisticated sentences as well as his parents.

But the day never came.

Secondary school was a nightmare. It was prestigious and it was pretentious. It was packed with all snotty brats from rich families like his, in Sebastian’s opinion. He saw the amateurish manoeuvre of sounds and words, to harm and to maim in subtlety, and with a horrific revelation, realised this verbal sparring was exactly what his parents had been doing in all those years behind the closed, locked door of their luxurious manor.

Bottled inferno beneath the calming exterior. This was what his parents were.

Sebastian was a quiet boy, had always been. He observed and assimilated, like what the duodenum did and he had always liked the comparison. He learnt about fertilization and zygote formation and sex was not, and never was love, in spite of its the common colloquial expression as love-making, instead, sex was just copulation aiming to achieve the ultimate formation of trilaminar layer and thus a brand-new human being. Just like animals, he mused, but isn’t human animal? Like his parents, married for the sake of marriage, a cold, tacit agreement that spoke of no emotion or whatsoever.

The day Sebastian learnt about the mutation was the day that he decided that he was not his father’s son, or his mother’s, for that matter. Calm, erudite, stoic and absurdly charming when necessary, his parents were all that Sebastian was not. For the years he spent assuring himself, it was over, all over. Maybe it was translocation, or paracentric inversion, or maybe it was just some missense mutation, it did not matter. His social awkwardness, his always-boiling violence beneath his too tight skin, his inarticulate grunts and nods, they must all be mutation. And as far as genetics was concerned, he was not them and certainly didn’t belong to them.

It was the time to be himself, his true self.

He got into fights with the posh and snotty brats and blood and pain made his blood sing and dance in his pulsating arteries. His heart beat vigorously for the first time in his life and he was alive, shockingly alive, incandescently alive. The actions made his body tremble with energy. He mourned at the years lost, the years that he was kept in line, like there was a p53, checking his every thought, every decision, every movement, proofreading everything he did.

Prison break time, he vowed to himself.

The day he turned eighteen, he told every one at the school, every single person, that he was going to enlist, because if there was one thing that his parents (were they still parents now?) cared, it would be the public opinion. The army welcomed him with open arms, as the army was always welcoming young, hot-blooded males enthusiastically. Trained as a soldier, he learned the proper way to fight and maim and appreciated the lethality of biology. And in the middle of some dark, cold nights, he almost regretted not going into medicine, a calculated balance between beneficence and iatrogenesis. Harming to cure, what a beautified contradiction but alas, he was never one for subtlety. So, being a soldier was fine, it was all fine.

He climbed rank like a shooting star, with his keen eyesight and steady hands, his ability of absolute obedience and rising from private to colonel in merely a few years, specializing in sharpshooting. A true predator among all, lying in silence like a coiling snake only to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Sebastian adored his post, and excelled in it, earning higher and higher security clearance with each successful mission, famous in the military circle for his deadly accuracy and flawless execution, the best killing machine that mankind can ever developed. Until the day when everything fell apart.

Life was an excellent imitation of the domino effect, or the butterfly effect if one would like to be artistic, and all it took was a simple, gentle touch of manipulation for all to fall apart. He was dishonourably discharged, disowned and betrayed.

Returning to London with no money, no connection, no family, Sebastian was left with very little choice. Clever above average, yet without any certificate supporting, handsome and muscular, yet with a back disfigured by a tiger, alone, skills useless in this peaceful city (yes, he did know that the city was not that peaceful, but everything was a harmless kitten compared to what he had done, the blood on his hand), he sat forlornly in his pitiful hotel room, contemplating his not-so-existing future.

It was on a rainy day that he decided that this day, this gloomy annoying rainy day would be his last day. He would die a soldier’s death, bloody and messy and loud as a gunshot. Then, he would be at rest at last, and at peace from all the betrayal, the disappointment, the pain that he would never admit to anyone.

But what he would not know was that when the thrice-damned rain had _finally_ stopped, he would go out with the intent of obtaining a pistol, not his first choice but his beloved L15A3 was no longer his. He would stroll down roads and alleys which were clouded by the looming grey sky above, and then he would literally crossed road with the most extraordinary man who would change his entire life, who would one day command his heart and body, whom he would die protecting.

Jim Moriarty. The light, no, the burning inferno in the darkness. His salvation.


End file.
